Blind
by Kidagarush
Summary: The 12th Precinct is under attack, and Beckett's world is unravelling faster than she can keep track of. With realities being tested at every turn, can Beckett and the team tie up the loose ends? Or will all these frayed threads form a noose around the people closest to the Detective? Castle and all related characters(c)Andrew W. Marlowe. Extra characters['villains'](c) Me :D
1. To Each Their Own

Beckett sat, legs crossed, at her desk in the precinct. Her chin rested on her left hand while she clicked through her e-mails. Esposito walked by, carrying a coffee.

"Got any plans this weekend?" Espo asked, lightly leaning on her desk as she closed the e-mail window and brought up some sort of catalog.

"Not especially," Beckett crossed her fingers and stretched her arms forward.

"Oh good, 'cause-"

"What are you and the guys up to?" She frowned.

"Just a little fun at a great bar Castle found..."

"Yeah, and it sounds fun, Javi, but I don't know if I can. I might have to…" Beckett trailed off.

"Aw come on, Beckett. It'll be a nice break," Ryan said, coming to a halt next to Espo. He was eyeing the screen with something akin to horror on his face. "You aren't planning to go through the unsolveds, are you? That could take all weekend… sitting there for two whole days, looking over cold cases can't be healthy."

"We needed to clean out that folder anyway," Beckett said. "Besides, a cop doing police work isn't unhealthy."

"Coffee is healthy," a smooth voice swiftly added itself to the conversation. Beckett instinctively smiled.

"Just in time Castle; we've got a bad case of The Determined Beckett," Ryan said, his distaste clear on his face.

"But coffee first," The author interjected, placing one of two mugs on Beckett's desk.

She nodded her thanks and took a sip. At that moment, Gates stepped out into the room. "My office, please, Beckett. And you too, Mr. Castle," she added. She seemed very on edge.

"Sorry guys," Beckett apologized with a smile on her face. The pair walked over to the door in unison. Over her shoulder Castle mouthed 'I've got this,' toward the guys, but quickly slackened his features under Beckett's suspicious glare. She smirked and rolled her eyes.

Gates waited for the detective to sit, and briskly walked back behind her desk in her modest office space. Gates sank heavily into her chair as Castle timidly closed the door behind himself and Beckett.

"Sir? What is it?" Beckett asked, her tone calm and careful. The chief was wired, and it took a great deal of stress to fray her nerves; they didn't call her "Iron Gates" as a pageantry title. Beckett could only pray Castle had the sense to behave for once.

"We've received word that someone here in the precinct… one of our own," Gates stressed, "may have turned on us." She let the weight of the statement hang in the air for a moment, then continued, "We have no leads on the tip, and no grounds for it other than the confidential information the tipper sent us as proof our intell was leaked."

"What intell, sir, if I may?" Beckett asked carefully.

"Of most concern, a planned abduction that we found out about from one Wilfred Morttar, a kid you sent to the DA on recommendation for parole. He told us someone that had been doing time got out, and had been scheming the kidnapping as some sort of revenge on the cop that put him in prison."

"Wait, so someone got a hold of a set of files that contain crimes that haven't happened yet? You guys just got infinitely cooler," Castle said eagerly. "Not that the Twelfth wasn't already the coolest precinct in this fair city of ours," He added, noting the storm cloud roiling in Gate's eyes. She raised one eyebrow at him, and Castle fell silent.

"The recent release under suspicion, according to our young Mr. Morttar, is Gregorovich Vidakovich. And yes, Mr. Castle, our folder of tip offs and presupposed offenses was copied and downloaded from our database, as well as a number of sensitive data that certain people needed to stay hidden. Beckett, I'm sorry to tell you this, but it was your computer that was hacked, late last night. No prints. Cameras didn't pick up anyone entering or leaving the building around that time, let alone on this floor, and the alarm wasn't triggered. The son of a bitch got away with it. I want you on this, Beckett, but keep it confidential. Bring in only who you need to, and if you're unsure of anything, address. Me. First. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir." Beckett nodded, and left the office with Castle on her heels.

When they got back to Beckett's desk, Kevin was holding her phone to his chest. "She's pretty upset," he said to Esposito behind him. He put the phone back to his ear.

"Multiple homicide-" Espo started as they approached.

"Okay, let's get down there," Beckett said, grabbing her jacket and her abandoned coffee.

"No. Multiple homicide in progress."

"What?" Castle was taken aback.

"No, stay calm, stay out of sight. We're sending our people down now," Detective Ryan was saying, "Miss, don't worry. N- wait, no! Miss! Miss?" He paused. "The line went dead. I think the phone was smashed. Whoever he is, he's armed and he's got two ho…three. Three hostages now, in an unused shop not fifteen blocks from here. We've got to go," Ryan finished in a rush.

Esposito and Beckett both double checked for their guns then ran toward the elevator with Ryan. Castle was quick after, not sure whether to be excited of terrified. As the elevator doors closed and they began their descent, he settled on the usual mixture of both.


	2. Castle Besieged

They arrived on the scene with several other squad cars outside of a dilapidated coffee shop. There was no sign of anyone in the building, but they were going to sweep it to be sure. Beckett was already in her vest, as were Ryan and Espo. Castle was about to ask Beckett for keys to the car, to get his out of the trunk, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, leaving Beckett and the others to cross the police line without him.

"Yes?" He said, not sure who had tapped him.

"Over here," a voice hissed. Castle saw the face of a ragged man, easily in his fifties, with scraggly gray hair and a dense coat of stubble, peering from behind another cruiser. His eyes were bloodshot, and his teeth more yellow than white. He would make a great novel character.

"Come here," the man rasped.

The author approached slowly. Whoever this was, his ruined clothes suggested he was homeless. _Perhaps he was squatting in the coffee shop? Maybe he's an undercover CIA or FBI agent. Maybe he's an alien, with information that could save the future,_ Castle thought, letting his imagination run away a little. He stopped himself. It wasn't as fun if he wasn't bugging Beckett with his wild theories. He frowned subconsciously and he went around the back of the police vehicle.

The hobo was crouching low, stroking a wad of bills, and looked up at Castle with watery blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said in a voice as rickety as the stairs of a haunted mansion.

Ryan and Espo held their weapons in an isosceles brace, flanking Detective Beckett as she approached the shop. Suddenly, a quartet of uniforms flooded out and, startled, reached for their belts.  
"Wait, wait," Kevin said, lowering his piece, "What's going on?"

"Detectives, we've just sweeped the building. What's going on out here?" The lead officer asked.

"What did you find?" Beckett asked, not bothering to explain the fact that _they_ were about to sweep the building.

"Nothing, Detective, the place is clean. Front door, back door, and a basement, but there's no one here," he replied, looking only slightly miffed.  
"How long ago did they leave?" Ryan inquired.  
"We'll need CSU on this, then," Esposito put in, turning to leave.

"Detectives," the officer said, halting him. "This place has been empty for months."

"What?" said Beckett.

"You're sure?" Ryan asked.

"Positive. The dust in there is piled higher than our Empire State, Detectives. 'Fraid you might've gotten punked," the officer said, shaking his head.

Castle was about to form a reply to the strange old man when, suddenly, a rag was pressed over his mouth. It smelled sickly and sweet; he tried not to inhale. His left arm was pinned to his side, but before the assailant could get his right, he drove his elbow back, hard, and the rag came away.

"Beckett!" He yelled. She came running from the coffee shop, Ryan and Esposito on her heels. His attacker regained his grip, and started dragging Castle backward. He was strong, whoever he was, and almost a head taller than the writer. Struggling, naturally, failed. Beckett drew her gun, but the assailant was using Castle as a shield; she wouldn't risk the shot. The man backed away with Castle in tow until his calves hit something with a loud '_thud!_' He stepped up onto whatever was behind them, and yanked Castle up after him. It was the back of a van. "No!" the writer shouted, redoubling his efforts to get free.

The advancing NYPD offered nothing but a chorus of "Drop him", "drop him or we shoot", "put him down", and "let him go." It was all white noise. Beckett's silence was the only thing to catch Castle's attention. He flailed his legs, wanting so badly to tear across the pavement; to get back to her.

They stayed like that for a minute, or perhaps ten; sitting in the back of a van, NYPD officers closing in. Castle couldn't tell one second from the next. Then one van door swung shut. The writer's heart jumped up into his throat, pounding like mad.

He knew what happened next; he'd written the scene time and time again. Pulled away, into the shadows, never to see the light or his loved ones again… Mentally, he shook himself. He was not Derrik Storm, he was not Jameson Rook; he was Richard Alexander Castle. He didn't live in his books. This wasn't some theatrical piece where everything was do or die, and he most certainly wasn't going to die. Not here. Not like this.

Suddenly, the man rapped on the inside of the van. The engine thrummed to life.

"Castle!" Beckett shouted.

"Kate!" Castle screamed.

The other door was pulled shut.

The police surged forward amid a torrent of useless gunfire, bullets bouncing of the vehicle, then the van pulled away, sped down the street and smoothly slid into traffic around the corner.

"Castle…" Beckett whispered.

Inside the van it was nearly pitch black; the windows must have been tinted. Castle was thrown to the ground and pinned there, the chloroform rag over his mouth once more. He tried kicking, but a knee in the middle of his back limited his range. The writer felt his whole body go slack as the darkness took him.

_Castle!_

Kate.

_Castle, tell me where you are!_

All he could hear was Kate, calling his name, shouting after him.

_I'm here_, he tried to say. The words refused to pass his lips. He felt frustration. He was a writer, for Pete's sake. Words were meant to obey him.

_Castle, where are you?_

He tamed them and trained them to dance across paper, creating a rhythm of sound that told a story. Any story he wanted, whenever he wanted.

_Castle? Castle!_

And now two little words were all that stood between him and Kate. Beckett could come and rescue him; he only had to tell her where he was. _Here, Beckett, here. I'm here._

_Come on, Castle!_

It wasn't all that difficult.

_Please, Kate, I'm right here… _

Two insignificant words.

_I'm here._

_I'm here. _

* * *

_I'm here..._


	3. Or, Or, Or

Half a dozen cruisers raced after the vehicle, gumballs lit, sirens wailing. Beckett stomped on the gas, speeding through the cleared lane. Traffic had all pulled off to the right, leaving the white van as the only driver out there, besides the NYPD. She quickly made herself one of the top three chasers. Beckett recognized their turns as those of someone trying to lose a tail. The driver pulled all the typical stunts, and the squad cars still hadn't given up. Beckett tightened her grip on the wheel. She refused to be lost.

When the van seemed to get that message, the driver pulled an illegal U-turn, causing the squad cars to hit the breaks. The pair of cruisers in front of Beckett hastily pulled left turns, but their lead feet had them skidding out too far. They just made it out of the way before Beckett decelerated and pulled a one-eighty in the middle of the intersection, shifting gear and speeding back down the street. The van was at least forty feet away. It cut another left, heading uptown, but seemed to change its mind. The driver must have seen Beckett's car. The van skirted another corner, and she'd closed the distance to thirty feet. The morning traffic had cleared from here, it seemed, and so it was a game of weaving around other cars, back and forth across the broken white line.

The driver decided to head back towards downtown, and Beckett chased on. Rushing past a series of stores and shops, they reached a stretch of taller buildings, sunlight glinting off the vast skyscrapers of glass and concrete. The van seemed to know where it was going now. It pulled a sudden right, into a fifteen story parking garage. Beckett gunned it, crossing the next intersection seconds before the red; banking a right, she rushed past the already-broken toll-booth barrier and headed toward the upper ramps.

She scanned each floor, with no sign of the van. Second to last from the roof, she spotted the white van with it's break lights still on. She pulled up behind it, cutting off its escape route, and switched the siren off before drawing her Sig Sauer.

She stepped out, and called to the driver. "NYPD! Get out of the vehicle and put your hands in the air, where I can see them. Now!" She moved carefully around the hood of her car.

The doors swung open, and a young hispanic man and woman stepped out, raising their palms skyward. The pair shuffled towards the detective awkwardly. They looked frightened.

That should have been the give away, right then and there. But she didn't register it; at least, not at that moment.

Beckett had them open the back, just as a handful of blue-and-whites arrived. She took a deep breath.

The back doors swung wide, and she swore aloud as several baskets of laundry tumbled out.

She heard the roar of a large engine rumble throughout the parking garage, and rushed the the cement barrier that made up the wall. She brought her fist down on the ledge as she watched a white van race away down the street, far below, recklessly swerving into traffic and disappearing into the urban sprawl of the city.

_Where are you, Castle?_

Detective Beckett was pacing up and down the precinct. She couldn't hold still. It was as if she'd had fourteen coffees through an I.V. "Where are we with that plate, Ryan?" she said, for the third time in twelve minutes.

"Still running it down, Beckett; I'm sorry; it's going as fast as it can," he said, trying to be helpful.

"Well make it run faster," she nearly snapped at him.

Espo stopped her. "We're worried too," he said quietly.

"I know Javi, I know." She took a deep breath. "We have to catch this bastard," she said.

"Got a match!" Ryan said, pulling up to the computer. "It's registered to 'Pack 'Em' moving company. They loan out vans for both full scale moves and smaller, more personal transport. Guess who owns the company?"

"Who?" Espo said.

"Nickolas Vidakovich." He said, without smiling.

"Vidakovich? Didn't we nail him for something already?" Esposito said, brows furrowing as he leaned over Ryan's shoulder.

"Close, Javi. We got his brother on smuggling drugs. There's no way he's happy about that." Beckett answered coldly, unable to look at the screen.

"But if he's behind this, then why take Cast—" Ryan started to ask, but Beckett cut him off.

"Castle was there when I made the arrest. He blew that case wide open. Damn it; damn it!" She crossed her arms to prevent herself from breaking anything. "Let's go talk to him," she said, swiftly grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair. There was a soft _clink-clack_ as something escaped her pocket and hit the floor. She snatched it up, meaning to stuff it back in her pocket, but she stopped. It was a pre-paid coffee card. Castle had got it for her not more than a week ago.

Beckett cast a despondent look at his usual chair. Why hadn't she just kept him closer? Or left the coffee shop sooner; that was obviously a set up. Or just taken the shot? She was a great shot—she wouldn't have hit Castle. Or shot the tire? Or driven down the garage ramp instead of up it, or, or, or. Why hadn't she done something?

"Beckett?" Ryan called from the elevator.

"Yeah," she called back, sliding the card back into the jacket.


	4. Tap, Tap, Tap

The elevator ride down was silent. When they got to the parking lot, the group automatically headed for Beckett's car. Traffic was a blur; she almost ran a red twice. Finally, they turned the corner into the lot of "Pack 'Em" Co. and parked. She forced her hands to relax before she let go of the wheel. They walked toward the door. Pulled it open. Strode up to the counter.

"We're here to see Mr. Vidakovich," Beckett said stiffly.

"Who is, sorry?" asked the gum-chewing, bobble-head blonde temp, her bright pink manicure clacking across the keyboard. She didn't even look up.

Beckett slapped her badge down on the counter. "That's who," she answered.

The temp jumped, and her eyes widened. "Mmkay," she said in a tiny voice as she eyed the badge, then Beckett. She delicately pressed a button on the intercom system on the desk, and mumbled something in hasty Russian.

A warm, heavyset voice answered back, made scratchy by the com's old receiver, and the temp swallowed a lump in her throat.

"He can squeeze you in... floor eleven," she said quietly, and went back to typing. Her nails clacked less ferociously, however.

Beckett swept up her badge and walked briskly down the hall. She stabbed the elevator call button.

It was impossible to drive the image of Castle out of her mind. God, he'd looked so terrified. So damn scared. He called out for her, and what did she do? She'd stared after the kidnappers, open-mouthed, just like the rest of the squad.

When the elevator finally arrived and the stainless steel doors parted, a weasley little man with greasy hair and large spectacles came hurrying out, nearly bumping onto the trio. He mumbled hasty 'excuse me's in a nasal voice that fit his stature. He reminded Beckett of a cockroach.

She barely waited for her backup to get into the elevator, and tapped her foot the whole way up from the moment the doors closed.

"We'll get him," Ryan said, trying to be reassuring.

"Damn right we will," Beckett replied.

The entirety of the eleventh floor only housed one office, a pair of bathrooms, a meeting room, and a break room. Far more glossy and high-end than the precinct, certainly; glass partitions everywhere, patterns of frosted glass, rich darkwood panels, and bright chrome finishes. The team practically inhaled wood polish and lemon Pledge with every other breath.

"Velcome," a booming voice called. A broad man strode towards them from the direction of the break room, a mug of tea in his hand. "Come in, come," he added, opening the office door for the team. He spoke with a lilting Russian accent, far more obvious than that of the temp downstairs.

"Mister Vidakovich, I presume?" Beckett fought to keep her expression neutral.

"Yes, I am, yes. Please, sit," he said, gesturing to a quartet of soft chairs arranged around a glass coffee table.

Kevin tried to nonchalantly take the seat beside Vidakovich, just in case the need for intervention arose. Javi couldn't stop Beckett from taking the next closest chair, so he perched himself on the edge of the third, nodding at his partner.

"I'm Detective Beckett, these gentlemen are Detectives Ryan and Esposito, of the N-" Beckett started her standard introduction, but the Russian interrupted her.

"Yes, yes, I know who you are, NYPD," he said, his smile tightening. "I right avay vish you to know I am nothing like my brother. I vill say I miss him, but that is because he is family. He has done wrong, and if this meeting is for more-" he stopped, as Beckett cut him off.

"This is not about your brother," she said, enjoying the twitch of irritation that flickered in Vidakovich's eyes. He certainly seemed the type to talk, but he didn't seem to like being interrupted. "One of your rental vans has been involved in a crime earlier today, Mr. Vidakovich, and we were hoping you could fill us in." She left her statement as empty as she could. She'd rather he detail the story; one of the first interrogation rules, formal or not: never feed the suspect too much. That tips your hand. A mistake which can be far more fatal out here than in Poker.

"I see, oh my, I see," he replied quickly. "That is not good, I am sorry." His apology was far too sincere. "Yes, vhere was this happening? I have drivers log all the comes and goes, and vhere they have been. It can help, yes?"

_A little too convenient, but I'll take what I can get,_ thought Beckett.

"That would be great," Ryan said, a pleasant smile on his face.

Beckett eyed him warily.

"Good, good," Vidakovich said cheerily, standing up. The Detectives followed suit.

Beckett ground her teeth, watching the Russian meander over to his desk, as if he had all the time in the world. He eased himself into his office chair. She crossed her arms. He slowly reached for the phone, and punched in a few numbers. She didn't have time for this. Castle didn't have time for this. He told the receptionist to compile the information and send it to the Twelfth Precinct. Espo left him the number.

"Thank you. We'll be in touch if we need anything else, Mister Vidakovich." Ryan wrapped things up before Beckett could bite the guy's head off.

They returned to the elevator with admittedly good Poker faces, but the cards had barely been dealt yet.

* * *

"It's a start," said Beckett, tapping her foot again, all the way back down to the first floor.


	5. First Impressions-- Not So Great

He wasn't sure if he'd opened his eyes or not; Castle could see nothing but darkness. The air was stale, and damp. He shifted, and immediately regretted it when he realized his arms were asleep. A rush of needle-point tingling traveled the length of his arms, which he only now registered as being tied behind him. Sitting up helped very little, and he almost didn't manage it; Castle discovered his legs to be bound at the ankles, too. Not that he was surprised. It was a very stereotypically grim and melancholy environment. He couldn't have written a better sense of foreboding if he'd had a thousand words to do so.

A low rumble sounded all around him briefly; a subway line, probably. That's why it's so impractical to have an underground lair in New York City. There was almost no space left unoccupied, above or below, by some structure or other. Now here he was, sitting flat on the cold floor, in the middle of Jack-Squat Ville. Population: him. Great.

He ran a foggy version of the ordeal through his mind. He tried to reassure himself that he had fought as hard as he could, but there was a constant nagging, telling him he could have kicked harder, thrashed more, something. He could have ignored the damn hobo; that was obviously a set up. Or he could have bit his attacker's hand, that's a classic. Or stomped on his foot, or head butted him, or, or, or. Why couldn't he have done something?  
Castle started to wonder if he'd gotten too comfortable at the precinct. If, maybe, he'd taken his situation for granted. He'd never worried for himself. Kind of awesome, how he was always worried about other people, rather than being concerned for his own safety, but then, he'd never thought too hard on what would happen if there wasn't a 'him' to be concerned for others in the first place. He almost took comfort in that poetic, albeit vain fact, when his very first shootout flashed before his eyes. Okay, so that guy firing rounds and shattering glass over their heads for his brother's illegal passport was a bit more than he was prepared to handle... but still. He'd wielded that champagne bottle cork fantastically and probably saved Beckett's life.  
_Beckett..._  
Just thinking about her made his heart clench painfully tight, as if the thing was clinging to his ribs for dear life. He had to get out of here. Of course, that meant answering a lot of questions he didn't even want to face. He couldn't imagine the fate his mysterious captors had in store for him. Or could he? He probably could. This could be perhaps the one time he would curse his writer's imagination. While it enabled him to improvise and pull unexpectedly clever diplomacy out of no where, it also forced him to see all the possibilities that could occur in any given situation.

It was something he'd never tell Beckett. All those moments in terrifying situations when he'd come up with a perfect solution had been preceded by visions of perhaps every single way they could have gone wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Speaking of horribly, horribly wrong, Castle expected someone to notice he was awake, and come in demanding he tell them where the nuclear launch codes were. He started talking to himself, reasoning out his situation. Just like when he was writing for Storm, or Heat, except that he was without a manuscript.  
_Alright, Rick, time for some improvising. You don't have launch codes, so why are you here? What do they want from you?_  
Nothing. He had nothing on him, and he didn't know anything special.  
_Think. You work with the police, don't you?_  
Then why not kidnap a cop for inside information?  
_Because they didn't want a cop, genius, they wanted **you**. What makes you unique?_  
Castle was an award winning author, with a substantial amount of money.  
_And they want a dedication in your next novel, is that it? Come on, Rick! Why are **you** here?_  
Because there's only one Richard Castle, and he's an important person.  
_Now you're getting it. Important... they need you for who you are... Why? What can Rick Castle do?_  
Connections. Get to people. He could get to people.  
_Alright. Who? Who are you here for? Not a Bono autograph, that's for sure. Someone who doesn't want you hurt. Someone who **they're** trying to hurt._  
An act of revenge. They want someone to pay.  
_For what?_  
No idea. There was no way to figure out a motive.  
_Okay, then how are they going to make the "who" pay?_  
I didn't reason out like a ransom-  
A set of heavy footsteps started up abruptly, and drew close.  
He sat up straighter, and swallowed the lump in his throat. Someone had to pay, and Castle was beginning to get the feeling he'd be the one footing the bill.


	6. On the Board

Beckett sat behind the wheel, on the way back to the precinct. She didn't know what she'd expected, but she'd gotten less than she had hoped for. The detective berated herself; it's not like she was going to get a full confession right off the bat.

Nothing ever lines up perfectly, not right away. She shoved her guilt and impatience deep down, where she wouldn't be bothered by either of them. She needed to get to the Twelfth. Write everything down, sort everything out. Then another uncomfortable thought struck her.

"Y'know, I hate to say this, but is this even our case?" Kevin asked, as if reading Beckett's mind.

"At least until they assign it as Kidnapping, yeah, it is. Just means we've got to work as fast as we can, bro." Esposito frowned.

Beckett felt half glad; she worked homicides, not kidnappings. She'd be glad if she never had to work this case from her end.

Back at the precinct, Beckett resisted the urge to pace again. Her eyes didn't want to settle on anything. Especially windows. God, they pissed her off. Outside, the whole world moved along at its regular pace, as if a life wasn't in jeopardy. People were driving, eating, sleeping, working, living- all the while someone somewhere could be dying.

But that was the way of the world. It was a depressing fact; the city that never sleeps wouldn't lose a wink over one missing writer.

Finally, she leaned against her chair and stared hard at the murder board Esposito was putting up. She frowned. _It isn't a murder board. Not a murder. It is not a murder._ She shook off the overly presumptuous '_yet_' that wanted to latch on to the end of that thought.

Ryan walked up with some photos in his hands, and he put them up on the board. They were stills from some traffic cam video feed, of the street that had been closed off for the coffee shop sweep.

"Bro," Espo said, raising a brow, "care to fill us in?"

"It's not much, but..." Ryan trailed off.

"What is it?" Beckett asked, a little sharper than she'd intended. "Ryan, what'd you find?" She added, softer this time.

"Well I thought 'try everything', so I had photos pulled from the scene." He cleared his throat. "Before Castle- I mean, before he was, well..." Ryan grimaced.

"I know, bro," Esposito reassured him.

"Before it happened, Castle hung back, and talked to this guy," Ryan said, finally, clipping the last photo in his hand to a magnet and sticking it up with the others.

While every other uniform was trained on the shop, Castle was around the back of a blue-and-white, with a shabby, gray haired man. A hobo, from the rags he was wearing.

"That's when we checked this one." Ryan pointed one still out, featuring the sketchy man pocketing a hefty sum of greenbacks. He'd turned his back, with a wince, on Castle, being absconded with by the tall dark mask-wearer who'd taken him away. Carried him off like he was nothing.

"So they paid that dirty little weasel off to distract Castle?" Espo said, disbelieving.

"Crude but effective," said Beckett, tonelessly.

"Detectives, is that board up yet?" Captain Gates strode out of her office.

This was the part Beckett hated. She needed it, though, to help focus her energy and keep a level head. But this part was the hardest. It made everything that much sharper. "Yes, sir." She drew a breath.

"Alright, huddle up," Gates called, across the bullpen. Every detective on the floor rallied around the board, and fixed their eyes, almost reverently, on the Captain. The ensuing silence promoted an audience ready for a rain drop, let alone a pin drop.

"As you are well aware by now," Gates started, "Mr. Richard Castle, the writer many of you have come to know or at least know _of_ these past few years, has been abducted. You may or may not know him personally," she glanced at Beckett, Esposito and Ryan, "but I expect the same dedication and professionalism in handling this case as in any other. This does not mean we are giving Mr. Castle up," Gates said, reading the looks in everyone's eyes. "The Missing Persons Department has asked for our help, and has agreed to let us into their investigation. They understand how we all feel, and we will not take this for granted. Run down every lead, and talk to your connections. Hinsberg, I want you and your partner to get in touch with our underground people, have them circulate a blown-up shot of this man. Feller, you're on personnel duty. Get me everyone that so much as sneezed near Vidakovich's building We'll be having ISU check each and every van they own." Gates tapped the board. Her stare reached each and every pair of eyes.

It was one of the slimmest leads Beckett had ever been given, but she was determined to run it into the ground. If that ratty homeless man was involved, he'd beg to go back to crashing under a trash-ridden, rat infested bridge somewhere when she was through with him.

Times like this, she almost always wanted some implausible idea that might, even vaguely, string all these random facts together.

_Castle._

She was going to find him. It wasn't a question- if she allowed it to become a question, Beckett was pretty sure she'd never sleep again. She was sick of all this pining anyway. It wasn't conducive to the job. His name hurt, now, like a curse or an insult.

He was missing.

And she missed him.

She couldn't bear to have this turn cold case; not when he'd been so warm and friendly and enjoying life. She'd have to lock this all away, for now. _Tears blur your vision, Beckett_, she thought. If she neglected any single fact just because she was upset and unfocused, she would never forgive herself. Not for any of her cases.

None of her cases needed her sympathy. Just her empathy. Use the facts to get to the story. Get inside the story, get more leads. Find more leads, find more facts, solve the case. Simple. So simple. She drew another painfully patient breath.

After the bull pen had dispersed, Beckett sat back down at her desk. Every so often, she shot a venomous glance over at the board. She looked at her keyboard. Someone had sat here and copied files using her hard drive. She'd almost forgotten about the mole that Gates had mentioned. Somehow, it didn't seem quite so important anymore.

_Hold on, that's not true and you know it_, Beckett mentally chided herself. All this made sense somewhere, in some way. She just had to pull the events together, and line them up.

Just then, she noticed that Captain Gates was hovering over her shoulder.

"Sir?" Beckett started. She watched the twitch along the captain's jawline. It was a reflex that, she had learned, always meant bad news. She was startled to realize, this time, it was good news. Relatively speaking, at any rate.

"Detective?" Gates replied, not quite meeting Beckett's eyes.

"Sir, with all due respect, what aren't you telling me?"

"It's only a stab in the dark, and I wouldn't waste your time with it, Detective," Gates frowned.

"Stab away," Beckett replied.

The captain raised a brow at her choice of words, but continued nonetheless. "The files that were stolen, Beckett, the nearest potential case to being active was, well..." She trailed off.

"The revenge kidnapping," Beckett finished for her. "You don't think-"

"I don't know," Gates interrupted. "So don't go chasing nothing. This is a hot mess, and I'm not proud of it. After the first forty-eight hours, Headquarters is going to insist we set the data theft as top priority. It is, detective, at best a coincidence." With another frown, and a firm hand on Beckett's shoulder, she headed across the floor and back into her office.

Beckett blew out a breath, and settled back into her chair. She thought about the story.

Someone steals information, to see what the police know. What other reason could there be? So the police know the abduction was planned, no target was mentioned, so the file is of little value. Unless they were looking for confirmation of the fact that the NYPD were still out of the loop. What if, then, that had spurred them on? Act before the police could piece it together?

Of course, this was all based on the assumption the files were stolen simply for one crime.

_It's the kind of leap Castle would make_, she thought.

So assuming that's the why, who would want confirmation the police were in the dark?

_The Illuminati, of course, a secret society built on-_

"Shut up," she said aloud. She realized she had plugged Castle's most likely response into the silence. She rubbed her temples. "Secret society. Huh."

Beckett noted Ryan and Esposito were arguing about something, and one of them pointed toward her. Espo caught her look, and poked Ryan in the chest. Kevin shrugged, then turned to follow his partner's gaze. He looked like a kicked puppy when he saw Beckett's expression. They both returned to their desks, with an apologetic look.

_This is tough on them too_, Beckett thought. _I have to remember that._

Which only meant she was going to crack down harder on Nickolas Vidakovich, and his brother. Typical search results of the pair displayed a number of photos of gala events, grand openings, and corporate dinner events. The same group of burly, dark haired men were in almost every picture, and so was the weaselly little cockroach man.

Detective Feller was in charge of listing all the associates and employees from Pack 'Em. She made a mental note to talk to him later. Right now, she wanted to figure out why all these heavy set men ran in the same circle, even at minute social gatherings.

_There just might be a secret society after all, Castle._


	7. Developments and Bruises

A gruff gentleman stomped into the dimly lit space then, and Castle could honestly say that in all his years of writing, it was the most liberal application of the word he had used to date.

This hulk of flesh blocked almost every ray of weak light that had flooded in the old metal door when it had opened.

"Well, don't you look friendly," he remarked, more to himself than the stranger.

The man grunted something Russian in reply, and frowned. A second figure joined him, and said something to the taller man whilst staring at the author.

Apparently he had translated the comment, because the next thing Castle knew, he was on the ground again; Big Joe over there had stuck his boot in the writer's stomach.

Joe, as it was, stood some six feet tall, with tattoos covering most every limb, and his face. The ink stretched up over his bald head, and the watery light set pinpricks of white glinting off of his numerous piercings. He wore a gray-ish wife-beater, and a well worn looking pair of jeans.

His compatriot, however, was average- well, everything. He wasn't especially tall, or muscular, though he too, had a number of inked quotes and skulls decorating his arms. Shortie had a t-shirt and cargo shorts, and heavy boots that looked like they'd hurt, possibly more than Joe's.

"Ve are not supposed to be killing you, Mr. Castle," Shortie began.

"Well that's a relief. And here I thought I was in danger or something," the author replied.

He had been right about Shortie's boots. They did hurt. A lot.

"That does not mean we are not to be taking time to make sure you are comfortable," Shortie sneered.

Joe asked something to his partner, still in Russian. The other man replied, laughing. The writer didn't like it one bit.

"Mr. Castle, ve only vant to know one thing," Shortie said.

"Well, you know," Castle said quickly, "contrary to popular belief, I'm a man of few words. Really. Ask anyone; you can't get anything out of me. Waste of time, honestly." He shrugged, his hands still tingling slightly.

"I am sure that Boris and me will think of somethink you vill talk about."

_Great_. He was starting to wish Jack-Squatsville was lonely again.

"Bro, I'm telling you, return it. It's garbage."

"Just because you saw it in a dumpster doesn't make it trash, Javi," Ryan retorted. His partner had been nit-picking things around the precinct in irritation. Kevin's jacket seemed to be the latest victim.

"Why would they be throwing it out otherwise, man?" Esposito countered, frowning.

"I told you, it was on clearance, man. I don't need designer threads to live- unlike some guys I know," Kevin retorted with a smirk.

"Quality leather is nothing to sneer at, dude," Espo muttered demurely.

"What have we got, boys?" Beckett said, walking over to their desks. She was on her second coffee- and it was only eight in the morning.

"Not much," Ryan sat on the edge of his desk. "We got a warrant for the van at Pack-Em, but CSU hasn't come back yet. No new evidence on the crime scene either."

"Then what's all this about a jacket?" She asked, trying to keep their lightheartedness going.

"Espo says-"

"Ryan got this out of a dumpster, man, I'm telling you." Espo grinned his thanks across the tense space between them.

"I did not! I bought it at the department store, next to the-" Ryan began to protest, but Esposito cut him short.

"Hobo."

"I'm not a-" Ryan began again.

"Javi?" Beckett raised a brow, then turned to follow his line of sight.

"The hobo, guys, look," he explained, pointing at one of the candids on the board. His jacket looked identical to Ryan's, save for the fact that it was weather-beaten and grungy.

"Get Hinsburg on the phone. Tell her where that store is, and have her canvas the alleyways for him." Beckett almost smiled; at least they had a way to narrow down the search.

Kevin jumped to it, while Javier went to inform Gates.

Fortunately, it was only half an hour or so into the canvassing that they encountered a homeless man wearing the dumpster jacket. He claimed to know nothing of the suspect, but Hinsburg, finally doing some detective work for once, managed to track him and a few others to a soup kitchen.

It was a small, cramped building with linoleum flooring, and fluorescent lighting. It looked in all honesty to Beckett like a high school cafeteria.

"Excuse me," she said, walking briskly towards the head of the volunteers, who lounged against one of the card tables at the back of the room.

He was speaking to a few of the visitors, hunched low over their soup bowls, before he looked up at the detectives and smiled.

"What can I do y'fer?" He said cheerily. "Name's Jeremy. Jeremy Woodlouw."

"Hello, Mr. Woodlouw, I'm Detective Katherine Beckett, and these are Detectives Esposito and Ryan. We're looking for an individual we believe to be homeless, and we thought it might have been possible he stopped in here. Have you seen this man?" She asked, withdrawing a photo of the suspect from a folder she had clutched under her arm.

The man paused and reviewed the photograph for a while, before glancing over at the counter. "Mind if I show this to the ladies? They'd know more 'n me the comings and goin's."

"Not at all," Ryan smiled, gesturing to the window through which hot bowls of minestrone were being passed.

After a few people had given the group shrugs, one girl chopping up carrots finally gave them their first real shred of hope since the ordeal began.

"Oh yeah, used to come in all the time, Morning, noon and night." The youth nodded, "Used to call him Ocean-eye Wally, 'cause his eyes are like, crazy blue and stuff. He's not dead is he?" She frowned, and looked at the detectives in turn.

"No, nothing like that. We think he might know something that can help us with an investigation," Kevin explained calmly, taking the photo back and stowing it in Beckett's folder.

"You said he used to come in? When was the last time you remember seeing him?" Beckett asked.

"Four days ago? No, Wednesday, I think. Yeah, he said he just wanted the bread that goes with the soup. He was going to feed some pigeons near Strawberry Fields and junk."

"I see. Was he in any kind of trouble? Did he seem bothered, or act unusual?"

"Not really. I mean, he didn't have any soup at lunch, and he didn't come in for dinner, Wednesday, but that's about it. Sorry if that's not a lot of help," she added.

"That's alright. If you can think of anything else, you give us a call here at this number," Esposito said, handing her a card.

"That goes for all the volunteer staff," Ryan added, with a nod.

Beckett smiled politely, and led the way out of the soup kitchen.

At least they could get the footage of the sidewalk outside the building off of a street cam, and track the suspect from there. Something solid was more than she had dared to hope for.


	8. Dramatis Personae

Castle squinted at the retreating figures as they left.

"Hey, I think I still have a rib you forgot to break!" He called, frowning.

"Believe me, Mister Castle. If ve vant ribs broken, they break." Big Joe's friend, ever polite, translated for him, and they both laughed heartily as the heavy door swung shut with an ominous thunk.

"Wasn't that funny," the writer muttered.

He felt like a heard of elephants and stomped around on his chest, or some other clever simile for having been beaten up. He couldn't think of one. He really wanted to sleep, in all honesty, but something in the back of his mind told him that was a bad idea.

It was all he could do not to think of Alexis, Beckett, the guys, his mother, even his ex. Well, exes. He grimaced internally at his own vanity.

_Not the point, Rick._

What point could there possibly be? The entire situation was painful, serious, and demoralizing, to say the least.

_So? What are you going to do about it?_

If he kept talking to himself, he was going to need some serious therapy later.

_Hey, it's a coping mechanism. Why knock it?_

His sarcasm hadn't done him any favours so far. They didn't seem particularly keen on keeping him in mint condition, so ransom slipped lower on his crude list of evil motives.

_Maybe you should start asking some useful questions, then, huh?_

Castle was ready to admit he was dreading another episode of Boris and Friends, so he ran through what he knew. He was underground, in a disused section of the subway tunnels. There was no way to tell the time. There was no power here; the only light had been from outside, in the hallway where extension cords slithered over the ground and away, into the shadows.

_Extension cords? _

There weren't any outlets nearby, which meant no amenities near by, which meant no rooms for the bad guys to rest their sore, steel-toed feet. He was probably unguarded.

If Castle could get out of _this_ room, he could make a break for it- into the unsafe, abandoned latticework of tunnels that likely ended in pitch black bricked-up dead ends.

God, he didn't want to be a dead end.

_Come now, Richard, you're not being productive._

He began to hear his mother's voice, reproaching him. At least he wasn't alone anymore- sort of. Crap, his head hurt. He tried to shuffle over to a grimy wall to lean against. At least, he assumed it was grimy. He managed to find some rough, poorly finished concrete; it was cool against his throbbing forehead. Almost a relief, except for the entirety of his chest cavity burning with pain.

_They cracked the door open then, and stomped him into the ground, and it was months before anyone found the mess of his body. The team that the N.Y.P.D. had dispatched didn't seem all that enthusiastic about it, really. It didn't take long for Lanie to I.D. him and chalk it up to a random mugging-gone-wrong, and Beckett wrapped up the case with a sigh._

"Jesus, it's cold down here," _she said, rubbing her hands together._ "Anyone bring coffee?"

"Damn it!" Castle woke with a curse, as pain raced through his limbs again. It had dulled to an incessant ache, and he was more frustrated than ever. He refused to acknowledge the mess that just took place in his subconscious; it hurt more than he could ever admit to himself.

_I'm not another cold case. It's not a murder. I'm not going to be on that board._

"You need a break, Beckett?" Ryan asked, as delicately as he could. She'd been practically burning a hole in the white board for the past two hours while he'd been screening the street cams.

"Makes you wish they had another arrow on that fast-forward, huh bro?" Espositio said quietly, over his shoulder to his partner.

"Yeah. You know she's not going to be able to work like this for long, right?" Ryan with a wry expression.

"We'll solve this." The other detective tried for a smile, but it was barely a twitch of his lips.

"Sorry, Ryan, you say something?" Beckett suddenly said, half turning to face him.

"Nothing," he replied dejectedly. "This is bad, Javi," he told Espo.

"And I think it's about to get worse." Javier stood up, and walked around the divider that kept the bullpen separate from the hall.

Martha Castle was striding down the polished veneer at break-neck speed.

"Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you lot have something on my son's kidnappers," she demanded loudly, though from the look of her, she was on the verge of tears. She stared sternly at the entire room, before approaching the corner of the divider.

"Mrs. Castle, you know we don't want to give you the cop line, but we _are_ doing the best we can," Espo insisted, holding out his hands to slow her rapid approach.

"Martha?" Beckett said, whirling around.

"Katherine, darling, please tell me what you've got," Martha begged, her sharp gaze cutting across the professional space between them.

"I-" the detective cast a glance at her captain, sitting stock-still behind her desk. She saw a barely perceptible nod, before Gates rose, and rolled her blinds shut with a thin, tinny rattle.

Beckett passed the nod on to Espo, and he let the distraught mother pass him.

Shaking, Martha clung tightly to Beckett's frame, and started to make odd little hiccuping sounds, before she was able to take a few deep breaths.

After being helped to a chair, she was given a carefully constructed summary, and she fell quiet for a time.

At length, she spoke, softly. "My poor Richard," she said. "Is there anything I can do to help?" She looked tersely from detective to detective, until Espo shrugged.

"Not unless you know any thing about- wait, Beckett, get the still of that one gala; the one in front of the theater or whatever?"

"You're kidding," Kevin said. "Well, if anyone would know, Mrs. C's got it covered, I guess."

"Here," Kate said, handing Castle's mother a photograph of the Vidakovich brothers and their well-dressed compatriots in front of an old theater, celebrating renovations by throwing a gala. They all stood by the freshly-cut ribbon, and patrons were scattered about the entrance, laughing and holding flute glasses up high.

"This is the Melville Theatre of the Arts," Martha said, after a moment's hesitation. "I directed a wonderful rendition of Oedipus there, once," she began, then shook her head, "but that was before this nonsense; the management changed, to these brutes, here," she pointed fiercely to the Russians, as though the sweep of her ruby red nail was condemnation enough. "They shoved out us real talent, and took it over, only to close it down three months later. What a tragedy."

"You don't say," Ryan said, leaning over the photo. "Do you recognize anyone else?"

"Just their pathetic little money man; a crooked financier if ever I saw one," Martha added. "Do they have something to do with this? If so, I certainly hope-" she began vehemently, but Javier patted her shoulder.

"We don't know, Martha," Beckett said slowly. "But that may help a great deal. The Melville, you said? Where abouts is it?" She asked, leading the red-head over to a map of the city.

"Around here, if memory serves," the ginger haired woman said, leaving a half-moon indent in the paper when she removed her nail.

_Figures_, thought Beckett. She'd picked a spot just beside a cluster of blue thumbtacks the guys had put up; indicators of every building or company Nickolas or his affiliates had a hand in owning, managing or running. It was starting to make up a large chunk of the city, six streets from the precinct.

She reached into the plastic bin and added another tack.

"Thank you, very much, Martha," the detective finally turned back to the woman, and hugged her tight. "I'm so sorry any of this happened, but we'll find him. I promise," she said, leveling her gaze at the woman.

"I know you will, dear. I know you will. If my son hasn't bored his captors to death already, that is," Martha added, a glimmer of mirth in her eyes, though they were beginning to fill with tears again.


	9. From Nothing

He'd begun to grow bored of squinting at nothing.

_Then again, you do bore easily. Should I dangle some keys in front of your face to keep you entertained, Castle?_

Beckett could punch him in the face and he'd still cry tears of joy at this point. He was starting to lose interest in being afraid. That was never a good thing; he'd had to get that drilled into him the hard way. There was nothing wrong with a healthy dose of fear. After all, it inspires self-preservation, right?

Castle sighed, yet again, unable to see so much as the warm vapour of his breath, curling away into the darkness before him.

No one would ever think that the word 'nothing' could have so many meanings, but in this dark, icy hole, the writer was beginning to learn quite a few. Castle began to see why he never paid attention in school. He hated being taught the same thing, over and over again, indefinitely. He'd never tell, but the man was grateful that his mother moved around so often, showing him new cities and new people constantly. If nothing else, it had kept him engaged, and always looking toward the future.

In this case, a freezing cold, lonely, gray, woefully discreditable future.

He kept seeing Alexis, crying, in his mind's eye. The scenario would always correct itself, though; it was never long before Martha would break down and his daughter would turn and console her, instead.

He hated every moment that he was putting them through this. the complete misery he had been through when those monsters in Paris had taken her- he was more furious than Liam Neeson could ever have been.

Now that he was so very far from all of them, there was absolutely nothing he could do to keep his family or friends from his mind. Anxiety roiled in his stomach, making him sick.

Could there still be a bright side to all of this?

Wandering the sewers was his most likely chance of escape, but it seemed reckless. He could hear Espo and Ryan, debating back and forth about the pros and cons of such a plan.

Finally, when thinking grew too exhausting, the author resumed his hand exercises; he had to flex his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists behind him, just to maintain some semblance of feeling in his frozen, aching digits. It was a good habit he'd gotten into, since it hurt unbelievably to move anything else. He'd given up on his feet over an hour ago.

Castle frowned to himself, recalling all of the bad habits he'd developed over the years. He used to click his pen, whenever he got writers block, and it bothered Alexis so much when she'd do homework, the man had done it on purpose half the time.

His pen.

_For the love of God. Did I really...?_

Castle's eyes shot open, and he sat up as straight as he was able, then doubled over. He pressed his chin to his chest, shifting around to feel his breast pocket.

_You've got to be kidding me._

His jaw pushed against the hefty metal cylinder of his favourite pen; blue and gold, it was a gift from the New York Times, and it was a _fountain pen_. That meant that the nib was pristine sharp metal, perfectly curved for your everyday escaping needs.

He twisted around and back, trying to get the fabric to surrender his mightiest weapon, but his crumpled blazer refused to cooperate. He tried easing onto his side and wiggling, to shake it loose, but the pen simply wouldn't move. Why?

_Did you clip it to the inside of your pocket, dad?_

Probably.

His daughter never let him leave for a signing unless he was ready; she knew how upset he would be if he managed to loose his favourite of all pens on the way there or some such mishap.

How ironic; his one _good _habit was the thing to screw him over.

He let out a breath of frustration, and furrowed his brow.

_How do I get the damn thing out of my pocket?_

There was no way around it. If he was going to cut through the ropes, he'd need something sharp. He would have to break the clip off or shatter the casing, maybe- he reluctantly thought about all the ways to destroy one of his most treasured tools.

_If it saves your life, you idiot, then what does it matter? You cared more about your ribs than your face back there, didn't you? You cared more about the grief of your daughter than your present predicament. Hurry up, Rick._

Now to get to work on breaking the pen off its catch in the blazer pocket.

_You know the old saying, Richard, you have to-_

"Yes, mother."

It took him a moment to realize that he'd spoken aloud, in response to the imagined sound of Martha's voice.

It seemed like a _very_ good time to break a few eggs.

"For the good of the omelette," Castle muttered, for no reason in particular. He sat up as straight as he could make himself, stretching a series of tender, pained muscles that were adamantly protesting this sudden exercise.

With a grunt, he lurched froward, smashing himself into the ground. He thrust his left side forward, and struck his pocket against the chilled, unyielding concrete, but to no avail. He dragged himself upright, and lunged again. And again.

He paused for a breath, the sweat beading on his forehead. It was almost reassuring, considering the gloom, and the bitter cold. Reassuring to know that his heart was still beating.

The next few attempts bore no success, either, but he kept trying.

He was thoroughly exhausted by the time the Russians returned for him, and he was almost too tired to think of any more oh-so-witty remarks.

Almost.

"So, I was thinking we should have a safe word, eh, fellas?"

"And there goes your last rib, Mr. Castle."


	10. To Something, At Last

He'd been missing since last night, at around 9 P.M. and a few hours this morning, for a miserable total of 8 hours.

Nevertheless, the 12th continued its search with vigor. It surprised Gates, most of all, that Castle had the ability to affect so many people. This was perhaps the last thing standing between them, and the case being reassigned by their superiors. She glanced out at the bullpen as she composed her latest plea for time and patience, her lips twitching slightly as the team worked.

The Melville triggered a few less popular articles in a magazine dedicated to theatre in their renewed search, and they hinted at the building's new purpose very vaguely. When Espo had dug up all he could, he started jotting the basics down on their board. The marker squeaked across the surface, and the other two detectives waited patiently for him to finish.  
"So looks like our guys bought it, wrecked it, and turned it into an office. Nothing big or fancy, except for the subway access and ground-floor deli. Kinda like those places by Central Park," Javi explained, capping the marker carefully.

"Speaking of which," Ryan interjected, "Cams can follow Wally, our hobo, right up to the corner of the Park, by Strawberry Fields. Any guesses as to why he might be wandering around there?"

"Pigeons, right?" Espo said, raising a brow.

"Nah, man, get this; he passes it, and heads in between this housing place and the old Gothic church on the street next to it all." Ryan added a pair of photos that backed him up.

"Who's that?" Beckett demanded, pointing out a tall, slim figure that walked closely behind their suspect.

"Likely the reason he skipped out on his bird feeding." Espo frowned. "We get this guy's face?"

"As a matter of fact..." Kevin grinned, though it was short lived, and handed over one final photograph." One of the suits from the Russian troupe's photograph, a gaunt faced man with short, bristly gray hair and wide, dark sunglasses had his arm casually draped over Wally's shoulders as they ducked into the narrow space together.

"Got him." Beckett could've smiled wider, maybe, but she was already picturing his ass in her interrogation room, squirming and giving up everything. "Let's pick him up, shall we?"

"We are instructed to give you this," the shorter Russian said, raising a water bottle towards Castle.

"Well, it's no Merlot, but as this is our first date..." the author grinned.

Boris decided to inform him his comment was not appreciated via his steel-toed boots.

"Getting old, guys," the writer coughed, tasting the increasingly familiar copper tang of blood in his mouth. "I'll make sure you get my dental bill when we're through here."

"Oh, well, I'm sure you won't be needing a dentalist," the Russian said, smug despite his incongruous use of English. "We were instructed to _give_ you this, but is not our fault if you spill it, Mister Castle."

He unscrewed the top, and upended the bottle, pouring over half its contents on the floor.

Castle ground his teeth, to keep from licking his lips. This was a little more than unfair. It also meant he was less important than he'd thought. Or, at the very least, these thugs weren't as afraid of their employer and any penalties for disobedience that might come from him or her.

This could mean their boss was a slacker, lazy and uncaring, or someone rich and powerful, very far away.

"I talk to you!" Boris bellowed. His foot came down hard on Castle's leg, and he smiled, somewhat satisfied when the man finally cried out in pain. "I talk, you hear," he grunted, stepping back.

_No, not what I needed; get back here!_

"Nah," Rick spat, grimacing. "I not listen to big, dumb Russian," he mocked, bracing himself.

Sure enough, the boot came at him again, and he twisted, throwing himself on an angle. The kick was brutal, and he managed to spit a generous amount of crimson onto his assailant's toes, but he smiled to himself nonetheless.

"AH!" Boris shouted, complaining loudly, as he proceeded to wipe his boot relatively clean on the writer's white shirt. He wasn't gentle on the pre-existing bruises, either.

"Well," he coughed again, "that's not coming out easily. I can give you the name of a great dry cleaner's."

The pair left, Shortie tossing the water bottle at him in annoyance, before the door slammed shut and Castle was blind again.

It was a number of painful breaths before he allowed himself to rejoice at all.

"Yes, yes!" He hissed to himself, wiggling and hearing the shattered remains of his pen com tumbling out of his pocket.

_Alright, first things first, Rick._

He searched with his face, shoving along the floor until he encountered the discarded water bottle. He wished he could have MacGyvered something more useful out of all of it, but honestly, he was just thirsty. He managed to sip what little was left, perhaps less than a third of the container, but it still got the taste of blood from his mouth.

_That's something at least. Alright, now settle in for the long haul._

Castle rolled over, facing the back of the room. He blew out a breath.

_Nothing there..._

He tilted his head up, and when he exhaled this time, he heard the pieces of his pen clip, simple, lightweight plastic, skitter across the floor. Shuffling toward the sound and aching every inch of the way, he managed to use his nose to sort through the debris. The curved metal end was still firmly attached to it's tubular metal casing, which was a spectacular outcome.

He almost felt like singing. Instead, he settled for some soft, vaguely happy sounds that started to resemble music after a few moments.

He hummed the remnants of some trashy pop song that he couldn't believe had managed to stay in his head this whole time as he fumbled around, trying to get his hands to line up with the pen.

_And now, the finale!_

Castle had, in earnest, never been so glad to hold a pen in his hands before. Flipping the casing around, he started using the sharp end to poke around his restraints. Duct tape, it seemed like. This was going to take a while.

_Good thing you have nothing but time on your hands, right?_

Beckett was thankful that their rich, snobby looking suspect had been at home. Heath Morrison sat stiffly in Interrogation, his attorney sitting stiffly beside him. Kevin and Espo had gone to the site in the photos, to canvas the area and see if there were any other street or shop cameras that could provide other angles of the event.

She gathered herself, hefted the case file in one hand, and turned the door handle. She took her seat carefully, though she'd barely been able to keep calm when they first dragged him in.

Beckett also took her time, sifting through the case file and its contents as if only just brushing up on them, though she'd scanned them over and over again for the past two hours. She took a deep breath in, and let it out, though she was fairly sure she could barely breathe.

"Mr. Morrison. I'm Detective Beckett. What is your connection to Nikolas and Gregorovich Vidacovich? And don't bother telling me there isn't one," she added, slipping the gala and event photos onto the table.

The man glanced at his attorney, who shook her head.

"I knew them from work. I do not know them anymore." His tone was clipped, and bored.

Beckett was certain he knew nothing of the word 'impatience'. She'd be sure to teach him, though.


End file.
